


Four Elements

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Past Abuse, Pre-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A seemingly trivial incident changes the dynamic between John and Sherlock, relating to a traumatic experience in Sherlock's past. </p><p>An emotional journey, figuratively through the four elements, yielding pain, angst, trust and healing.</p><p>Rating for later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire

**Author's Note:**

> The storyline to this work formed in my brain while listening to Lindsey Stirling's "Elements" on repeat. Beautiful song, and if you enjoy the violin and want to get in touch with your emotional side while reading this, I highly recommend looking it up!

 

**Four Elements**

_Fire, Air, Water, Earth_  
 _Ever since the tales of the ancient Greek,_  
 _these four elements have been believed to be the matters of existence;_  
 _uniting life and death, creation and destruction,_  
 _healing and harm, continuously coming full circle_.

 

**FIRE**

_Fire is represented through forces that warm and radiate;_  
 _it preserves life and provides healing._  
 _Fire also creates heat;_  
 _it is a destructive force, vicious in its path._

John was sitting at the desk, working on a long overdue update for his blog, as he realized that Sherlock - whom he had assumed to be preoccupied with some heavy thinking in his usual pose on the sofa - was emitting a strange kind of sound. Looking over, he saw that his friend was curled up into a ball on the couch, shaking, bracing his arms around himself. The odd noise seemed to be coming from his teeth, which were chattering. Immediately filled with concern, John quickly walked over and checked Sherlock's temperature with the back of his hand, only to realize that it was - as expected - most definitely highly elevated. "Sherlock, you've got a fever", John stated, trying not to sound too alarmed, then added under his breath: "Gee, would it kill you to include me every once in a while; ask for help? I'm a doctor, and I was sitting right there, for crying out loud!". More tenderly, he then instructed him: "Come on, let's get you into your bed, it'll be nice and warm in there." Shoving his arm under Sherlock's back, he helped him get up and then maneuvered the both of them into his friend's bedroom.

There, Sherlock simply collapsed on the bed and closed his eyes, looking more pitiful than John had ever seen him before. His heart clenched at the sight, momentarily giving way to the part of John that he had been suppressing for so long - the part that clearly cared for Sherlock as more than just a friend, the part that longed for this man so much it almost hurt him physically - the part he had been painfully aware Sherlock did not look for any association with, ever since he had told him so that very first night at Angelo's.

That same part of him now also quickly deduced that, as Sherlock was obviously incapable of the simplest task at the moment, it would be entirely up to John to rid him of his usual dressy outfit in favor of something more comfortable. Quickly rejoicing at the sheer thought of undressing Sherlock Holmes, John instantly deemed that sentiment more than inappropriate given the current situation. He thus forced the doctor in himself to take over from here on out - with a more detached, clinical and practical approach. He almost succeeded, reducing his hands' tremble to a bare minimum as he unbuttoned Sherlock's purple shirt, pulled him to a sitting position and then gently slid it off his shoulders, immediately replacing it with a simple navy t-shirt (he was surprised Sherlock even owned such a thing). Tending to removing his trousers, however, proved a little more tricky, as the mere motion of undoing Sherlock's belt, button and zipper was instantly reminiscent of a plethora of naughty dreams and daydreams John had pursued in the past, filling him with a warmth that radiated all throughout his body. Using Sherlock's seemingly unconscious figure as a reminder of the terrible state he was in, John swallowed his desire and pulled himself together - and Sherlock's trousers off him, exposing black, sleek pants. After he had gotten him into some pajama bottoms, John helped Sherlock scoot up to the middle of the bed and then lovingly wrapped the still shivering body in his French silk sheets, tucking them at his sides until it was only Sherlock's face that was visible anymore.  He then leaned in close to the other man, who still seemed utterly unaware of his surroundings, stroked his hair ever so lightly and whispered, more to himself than Sherlock: "Now since you haven't eaten anything in god knows how long, you probably shouldn't take any medication tonight - just try to sleep it off a little and if you're still not better in the morning, I'll get you some Paracetamol, alright? I'll be right there in the living room, I'll sleep on the couch tonight, so if you need anything, shout for me." Then, after a few seconds had passed, he added, sounding almost desperate: "Please."

For the next few hours, it was quiet from Sherlock's bedroom, and after finishing his blog entry, John got ready for bed, grabbed a blanket and went to make himself comfortable on the sofa, but not without checking in on his patient one more time. His shivering had ceased a little bit, and his cheeks looked positively flushed as he was still bundled up like a burrito. He looked peaceful - an adjective John would not normally use to describe the detective. As the thought brought a little smile to his face, he decided to pull his armchair into the room, along with his blanket, and get comfortable next to the bed in order to revel in the sight of this beautiful face just a little bit longer - naturally under the pretense of simply being concerned for Sherlock's well being.

As John woke up, he felt a sharp stiffness in his neck that extended all throughout his body and made him groan with the realization that he must have fallen asleep in the chair next to Sherlock's bed. As he wondered at the time and whether it would be possible for him to sneak out unnoticed and end this night's rest with a slightly more comfortable nap on the couch, he slowly opened his eyes and adjusted to the unexpected brightness of the room, only to find Sherlock staring at him intently. To his joy, the other man was propped up against the headboard of the bed and seemed to be in a much better state than the previous night - something John could not say about his own, aching body. "G'd morning", John mumbled, "I take it you're feeling better?" Instead of an answer, Sherlock simply stated, with an air of confusion: "You slept in here. In your chair." At a slightly embarrassed nod from John, he retorted: "Idiot."

"What? I just wanted to make sure you're okay. You had a high fever last night, were almost passed out. I came in here to see if you needed anything. Must have fallen asleep."

"Well naturally you did. You're a doctor. I wouldn't expect any different of you. You're an idiot for sleeping in the chair, it's ergonomic design does not seem conducive to a good night's rest."

"I'm sorry if chair design was low on my list of priorities last night, Sherlock. For future instances I will make certain to match my choice of chair to your ergonomic requirements."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you this early in the morning, John. I meant that you could have slept on the bed. It's plenty large enough for two and seeing as how you bundled me up like a baby Eskimo you could have easily rolled me to one side and taken the other."

"That....I... I didn't know that would be....Thank you."

Giving him a quizzical look indicating that Sherlock clearly did not understand why John was so flustered at the merely logical suggestion, his expression suddenly changed dramatically, taking on a quickly disguised hint of panic.

"Hang on - if you say that I was almost passed out last night, then how did I get out of my clothes and into..." - he stopped to examine his t-shirt - "...THIS horrendous thing??"

John pointed a finger at himself, deciding to give early-morning sarcasm another try: "Science of deduction, Sherlock. Really, has the fever eaten at your brain?"

Instead of countering with the expected witty comment, Sherlock seemed to be completely thrown off his game: "So - you took off my other shirt and put this on me? Did you - I mean - have you... "

Quick pause, Sherlock recollecting his thoughts, his face taking on a furious quality. "John, how DARE you! I don't know what sick pleasure you were hoping to gain from this, but for future reference, I am very much capable of taking care of myself, so I would greatly appreciate it if you could refrain from undressing me in any way, shape or form. I thought I made myself rather clear about that from the beginning. Do NOT take advantage of me, ever again!", he snapped, his tone thick with reproach.

Too hurt by this verbal kick in the guts - a low blow, even by Sherlock's means - to wonder about the detective's sudden outburst, John clenched his jaw and exited the room with quick strides, slamming the door shut behind him before he could say anything he might regret in the future.  
"Arrogant, fucking prick! Selfish, narcissist arse!", he growled to himself as he walked up the stairs to his bedroom with particularly thumping steps. Had Sherlock really just accused John of acting on ulterior motives? Yes, granted, some inappropriate thoughts HAD crossed his mind in the process, but Sherlock knew nothing about those sentiments of his, did he? Even if - he would have undressed him either way, he was not about to let anyone, friend or patient, go sweat out a fever in their uncomfortable, restricting and not to mention ridiculously expensive designer clothes! With a frustrated huff, he threw himself onto his bed and decided that he might as well try to get some more sleep, as he clearly was not needed downstairs.

Waking up a few hours later, John's body felt slightly better, although his mind quickly recapitulated the morning's events and Sherlock's strange behavior. Could the man really be that self-involved? Had he somehow become aware of John's feelings towards him and was repulsed by the mere thought of him laying eye on his half-naked body? Just the thought alone made John flush with humiliation. Even if, he had never imagined Sherlock to be so cruel about it. He had never expected any reciprocation of his feelings, he was well aware that they were solely his to handle, his very own responsibility and inconvenience. But as much as that had caused him to hide his emotions to the best of his abilities, he had considered several scenarios where the detective's sharp mind would deduce his predicament, and although he had always imagined that no, Sherlock would certainly not fall to his knees and admit his own feelings for John, and that yes, he would undoubtedly make fun of him for his silly sentiments occasionally - he had always expected fairness.

It pained John to think he might have misjudged Sherlock's character so drastically, and yet it was the only explanation that seemed to make sense. Deeply saddened by this revelation, John pulled the covers over his head and covered his face with his hands, as if to hide his shame and tears from himself, fueled by the fire of indignation that now burnt deep inside of him.

 

 


	2. Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to explain his rash behavior and lets John get a glimpse of just how broken he really is.

 

 

AIR

_Air is a potent force that yields the power to bring about change;_  
 _it blows away sorrows and brings a wind of fresh energy._  
 _Air is also a terrifying force that travels over long distances;_  
 _it swoops up solid foundations and scatters pieces never to be reconstructed._

 

It was already late afternoon when John awoke yet again. This time, he decided not to dwell any longer on his sadness and his anger with Sherlock - at least not for now - as he would have to make his way back downstairs eventually. Preferably sooner rather than later, as he noticed he was starving.

Not bothering with anything more than a robe, John went downstairs and took a few deep, calming breaths before entering the  - thankfully deserted - living room. Making his way to the kitchen to pursue his quest of finding something - anything - edible with a reasonable expiration date (although he knew the chances were slim), he was thrown off by a plate on the table, covered in aluminum foil. Next to the plate he spotted a note, bearing Sherlock's distinguishable handwriting: "Your favorite. Apologies if inedible - significantly lacking chef qualities. Please do enjoy, though, if possible." Curiously peeling back the foil, John discovered a full serving of spaghetti bologna, which frankly smelled wonderful. Waiting for the dish to heat up in the microwave, he couldn't help but let a small smile grace his lips. That damn sod, constantly surprising him in both the most irritating and wonderful ways possible. Although it didn't specifically say so, he realized that this dish - this rare (or actually, unique, as he couldn't recall it ever happening before) attempt at cooking - was Sherlock's way of apologizing to him. He knew the detective well enough to not expect a verbal apology, so he took this gesture for what it was intended as: an awkward but infinitely sweet acknowledgement that he had wronged John, and a small endeavor to make it up to him.

As he was eating the surprisingly delicious apology, John heard music emerge from Sherlock's room. He was playing the violin, yet it wasn't one of his usual thinking tunes. It started as a forceful, rapid, almost choppy piece before suddenly mellowing into a slow, melancholic tune. Foreign to John's ears, he had to admit it was breathtakingly beautiful, definitely dark in its intention, but rather deep and moving at the same time. Having decided that he wanted to make his appreciation of the meal known to his flat mate, but unsure whether he should or wanted to interrupt his captivating play, John hesitantly approached Sherlock's door. As if aware of John's indecision, the music ceased and the door in question was opened slowly, a morning gown-clad Sherlock staring back at him with a blank expression. "I...ummm...wanted to say it was. Edible, I mean.  Very. The food....'t was delicious, in fact.", embarrassed at his incoherent stumbling and somehow feeling emotionally ill-equipped to deal with this peculiar situation, John just added a quick "So, uh, yeah. Thank you. And...uhm...it's fine. It's all fine.", before turning around on his heel to walk away from those piercing eyes.

Having almost reached the living room door, he just barely heard a low "No. No, John, it's not.", causing him to stop, pause, then retrace his steps tentatively. At his questioningly raised eyebrow, Sherlock just opened his door a little further, gesturing inside, adding a quiet "Please do come in, feel free to make yourself comfortable.". Intrigued and slightly worried at the prospect of what might be about to come, John did as he was prompted, fully aware that it wasn't like Sherlock to confront situations head on, let alone talk about them. Feeling his hands start to jitter and his mouth dry up, John walked over to where his armchair was still proof of last night's events and sat down in it, wondering whether this was going to be it: the conversation he had dreaded, the time Sherlock told him he could no longer share a flat with someone who yearned for more than just companionship, that his ways disgusted him and that he was petty for allowing such sentiments to develop in the first place. He couldn't believe this was happening, and yet it seemed to be the only logical explanation as to why his flat mate seemed so eager to talk. No, considering the visible apprehension in Sherlock's expression, combined with something he couldn't quite pinpoint - fear? -, eager seemed to strong of a word. Determined, John decided.

Sherlock looked determined; even when he spoke, albeit staring at the ground: "John, I just need you to know - I might have been out of line this morning...no, I definitely was. Very. I didn't intend to hurt your feelings. Never do. And although I'd really prefer not to talk about this, ever, I realize it needs to be addressed for the sake of our friendship and...this....this living arrangement, and maybe then.......you.....you'll.....un....und...understand." -

"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you alright???"

Struggling for air, his breath labored and strained, Sherlock's hands went to his choked up throat as he shot a look of panic towards John. Immediately on his feet, John knew the signs and took his friend by the shoulders with a firm grip, speaking to him in a clear, calm manner: "Sherlock, listen to me. You're having a panic attack. Nothing serious. Relax, I'm here to help you through it. You need to exhale. Come on, do it with me."  
With that, John demonstratively let out a small breath of air, verging on a sigh, as Sherlock copied him.

"Okay now, close your eyes, breath in through your nose. Slowly, steadily. Relax. I'm here, I'm a doctor, remember? I'll make sure you're ok."

Together, they breathed in and out a few times, attuning their rhythms until Sherlock's breathing was less shallow, less raggedy and John felt comfortable he would regain his composure - and arrogant ways - shortly. He was right.

"So that's what you did in warzones? Breathing exercises?", came the immediate ridicule, although it was lacking its usual sharpness, given Sherlock's weak tone and still haunted eyes.

Bringing the both of them to sit down on the edge of the bed, one arm still around his friend's shoulders, John ignored the comment and disclosed: "I used to get them, too. Still do, sometimes. The past never quite leaves you, some of its demons will always be there to haunt you. You've just got to learn how to fight them off. Breathe them away." Sherlock nodded slightly, staring down at his hands. "Is this about your demons?", John asked quietly after a while, secretly begging the answer to be yes, just so he could stop being so damn scared about his romantic feelings for Sherlock being the root of all this sorrow.  
Sherlock was quiet for a few minutes, before turning his gaze to his flat mate - seemingly staring right into his soul. With a new found determination, he silently spoke: "I have eliminated most of my demons. Everyone I have every met has somehow hurt or tortured me - I used to think it was my fault, that I deserved no different. So I got quite well accomplished at banning those demons from my mind palace, from my only happy place, my fortress of solitude."

John was going to say something, something to comfort his friend, reassure him that he never deserved to be hurt, but Sherlock motioned with his hand and a barely noticeable shake of his head to hold his tongue, to let him go on.

"Three of them weren't as easy to eliminate, though. They were the worst, the things...the things they did to me...I...they..." His throat threatened to close up again, so Sherlock took a few, deliberate and slow breaths before continuing, using John's reassuring eyes as a constant to calm him. "Anyway, I thought I had them safely locked away, at least, until they unleashed this morning. As you may have noticed, I'm not prone to public displays of nudity, I try to maintain a certain level of decency even around my own quarters, and especially around other people, even if it's just with the help of a bed sheet. I'm not shy or self-conscious, over the years I have compared my own body to a significant sample of the British male population and have found it to comply with the general public's definition of reasonably attractive."

John rolled his eyes and smiled at the same time, at this rather Sherlock-typical, analytical approach to determining self-worth.

"There is one part of me, however, that I have always tried to do my damndest to prevent from anyone laying eyes on it.  - Oh John, get your mind out of the gutter! My genital area is perfectly compliant with the general norm, thank you very much." His smirk and the amusement that had sparked in Sherlock's eyes vanished just as quickly as they had appeared.

"No, I'm talking about this...", he trailed off, reaching for John's hand. He then carefully, hesitantly guided his friend's hand under his morning gown, to the small of his back, all the while locking their gaze. John gasped at what he felt beneath his fingertips. He could easily tell it was scar tissue, thick and old. He was slightly confused, however: "Sherlock - that's awful...but it's a scar. I've got scars, you've seen them. Lots of people do, in fact, it's nothing to be ashamed of...?"

Sherlock swallowed, then guided the other man's hand further along, letting him feel the scarred tissue stretch from one side of his back all the way to the other, right above his buttocks. It felt odd, a little too regular for John's taste, reminiscent of some sort of pattern.  
Then it hit him: "Oh...it's not just a scar, is it? It's....it's a word..." Sherlock's silence was enough of an answer.  
  
"God, what did these bastards do to you??"

John had to hold back his sudden anger, the urge to kill whoever had done such wrong to this wonderful man in front of him. So he focused on Sherlock instead - his current vulnerability. Respecting his privacy and dignity, he gently withdrew his hand before he could decipher what the scar said, reassuringly wrapping his fingers tightly around Sherlock's ice cold hands in exchange. John was suddenly aware of the enormous intimacy between them at that very moment, the amount of trust it must have cost Sherlock to confide in him like this. All he wanted to do was to wrap him in his arms, hold him, and kiss his sorrow away. But he was too scared, too afraid to break this shattered man any further, so he just focused on the soft feel of the detective's hands - the strength and tenderness that lay within those long, elegant fingers he had enveloped in his own. Deep in thought about what all of this meant, John finally concluded: "When you - when you deduced this morning that I must have undressed you last night without your explicit knowledge, you...you thought I might have seen it, right? The thought scared you, and that's why you reacted so harshly...?"

"I panicked - I...I shouldn't have said what I did. I'm sorry, John."

Startled at the unexpected and sincere sounding apology, John just squeezed Sherlock's hands between his.

His friend continued on: "I had always expected that having a flat mate could be...problematic. That I would accidentally walk around with just a towel around my hips and that you would see it. That you would walk in on me in a state of dress or undress where you could read it. I was taking any precautions I could, being careful, but I was nontheless prepared for the worst. At least I'd be able to explain to you, right then and there, and then maybe it wouldn't be as bad, wouldn't affect us as much. But realizing you might have laid eyes on it without me being able to explain, might have made your own deductions and might thus see me in a different light already, I panicked. I don't even know why this is such a pressure point with me, it happened a long time ago, was inflicted on me by brainless idiots who aren't even worth a single second in my mind palace, let alone a lifetime of residence! But it's complicated, it's not just a fact that can easily be categorized and filed. It's tangled with emotions, and we both know I'm not equipped to handle sentiment... Either way, of course I should have just analyzed the situation before reacting. Had I kept a clear head, I would have seen it in your eyes that you hadn't read it. You're a lousy liar, John. Your eyes always give you away."

He tried a small smile, and failed. John's hand were trembling around his, jaw clenched.

"Sherlock, I need to know. What on earth could possibly be so terrible that you would believe it to change what I think of you? How I feel about you? What did these people DO to you?? Who are they? When? Sherlock, how else did they torture you?"

He knew this myriad of questions wasn't helping, that he was pushing his friend too much, but he just HAD to know. He was sick to his stomach with rage, while his heart bled for Sherlock and his mind was desperately trying to get a grasp of the situation. Sherlock's voice sounded hoarse, strained, when he spoke next.

"University. They hated me. All of them....why...why does everyone always...hate me? I...they...tortured....choked...choked me...All at once...no air...air."

He had gradually emerged himself into a panic attack again, failing to prevent his throat from closing up, struggling now to catch a breath of air. This time, however, a simple look into John's worried yet commanding eyes sufficed, and he followed his lead - exhaling, breathing in slowly through his nose, exhaling, breathing. Breathing together until he got better. Clearing his throat, Sherlock pleaded quietly: "I don't know if I can do this. Some other time, maybe. Maybe not. I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's okay. You don't have to. It's all fine, Sherlock. All fine." But they both knew it wasn't.

"John, one last thing..." - "Hmm?"

"You, uhm, you're gonna have to let go of my hands now, John."

"Oh - I - I'm so sorry. So sorry. That was inappropriate.", John muttered, withdrawing his hands from Sherlock's as quickly as he could, flushed with embarrassment.

"Was it?", Sherlock asked absent-mindedly, "I didn't mind it."

With that, he got up and grabbed his violin and bow, standing in front of John with an earnest expression.

"Anyway, I would like you to listen to this piece. It is rather cathartic to me - I composed it after the incident. It's called "Eastwind", named after this story Mycroft used to tell me when we were kids - about the Eastwind, a devastating force that would sweep over the earth, leaving only destruction in its path, to pluck out the unworthy - that generally being me. When I play it though, I imagine the Eastwind blowing away all those that have hurt me - one by one - until there's only me left."

With practiced grace, he lifted the violin to his chin and started playing the same, dark and beautiful song John had heard earlier. He watched in awe as Sherlock moved his bow rapidly, with such power and intensity, his face stoic with concentration, eyes lost in nowhere. When the tune merged into the melancholic mood John now knew to expect, slowing in tempo but not sacrificing any of its intensity, Sherlock closed his eyes and John couldn't help but think that he had never seen the man look more beautiful, breathtaking and stunning in his life. The revelations of the day had caused his affection to grow exponentially, almost unbearably, and when he witnessed a silent tear escape Sherlock's closed eye, he vowed to himself to not rest until he had made this brilliant human being whole again, whatever it would take.

When Sherlock finished and the sudden silence of the room hit them both with full force, John quickly wiped his own stray tears aside, whispering: "That was beautiful, Sherlock." - meaning that it was the most marvelous thing he had ever heard.

Then, for the first time all day, he saw Sherlock truly smile - one of those rare smiles that extended to his eyes and warmed John's heart instantly. "You know what just came to me? After the Eastwind leaves - it's not just me any longer. I'm not by myself anymore."

John's eyes widened in confusion: "What do you...who else is there?"

"Don't be daft, John. You. You are there with me."

And with that, John finally couldn't hold back anymore. He stood up from where he had been sitting on the bed this entire time, walked up to Sherlock with all the confidence he could muster, cupped his face with gentle hands and kissed him, slowly and tenderly, conveying everything he couldn't possibly put into words.


	3. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally talks about his traumatic experience.
> 
> Descriptions of violence ahead.

WATER

_Water is a cleansing and purifying element;_   
_it is gentle and conducive to emotion._   
_Water, at times, can quicken its pace;_   
_releasing passion and providing healing._

Waves of emotions washed over Sherlock as John's lips softly touched his, slowly caressing with his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, sending sparks all throughout his body. Hesitantly Sherlock kissed back, eyes squeezed shut as if to block out reality for just a few more moments, and a small moan escaped his lips. This wasn't supposed to be happening, this was exactly what he had been trying to avoid from the start! He had become imprudent though, letting his guard down for John like he had, confiding in him with what was only a small part of the whole story, but still - He had known John had feelings for him, had known it all along, so how could he possibly have been so reckless and let him get this close?

Considering the implications, Sherlock started to think it might almost have been better to leave things as they were, after he had said those painful words to his friend that morning. John would never be the wiser, still hurt and disappointed, but his anger at Sherlock would have helped him get over it, eventually. Now there was no anger, no fury, only understanding, and care, and kindness, which would make the disappointments to come all the more detrimental.  
Because as Sherlock knew, neither alternative was pleasant. He could either push him away right now, attempt to limit the damage, tell him he had no interest - never had, never would have. Lie to John to protect him - it wouldn't be the first time. He would have to take this fleeting moment of utter bliss he had just granted him - granted the both of them - and rip it away, mercilessly, cruelly, denying its meaning and wonder - and he knew it would shatter both of them. Or he could go on with it, take a leap of faith and draw John down this spiral of pain, confusion, and maybe, just maybe, hope, with him. He would have to trust John, completely, reveal his darkest secrets to him and hope that he wouldn't drown in the process. Drown in his own sentiment, in John's affection, his empathy, and -most dreadfully of all - his pity. He guessed the decision would be easy for someone like John, always the optimist, always the romantic believing that love could heal anything. But Sherlock was realistic, and he was well aware that the chances at a happy ending were minimal, nearly non-existent, despite both their most heartfelt dedication.  
This was exactly why he had been trying to keep his emotional distance from John since the very beginning, he had known from the start that the bond between them, with all the potential it yielded, had always merely been a disguise for the inherent danger of mutual destruction.  So he had been content with their arrangement - close but distant enough, feeding off each other's company but keeping John at arm's length, admiring from afar, knowing it was safer that way.  
Sherlock didn't want to make a decision yet, wanted to revel in this marvelous sensation of kissing John just a little bit longer, but then John finally pulled away and Sherlock frowned, at more than just the loss of physical contact. So, this was it, then.

"John, I - ", he started, his voice shaking slightly, but he was interrupted when the other man took both his hands, caressing them with his thumbs as he motioned his head for silence. "You don't have to say anything, Sherlock. It's fine. Today has been - uhm - a bit emotional for the both of us, and while I can't thank you enough for confiding in me, I shouldn't have sprung this - this ", he motioned between the two of them, awkwardly, " - on you like I did. You were vulnerable and I took advantage, and I'm so sorry. I think it's best if I leave you to recollect your thoughts a bit, you know, make deductions and such. And then if you chose to ignore this, delete it, forget it ever happened, I will accept that. Your call. Just know that come whatever, I'm always here for you. You know, if you need to talk, breathe, fight demons - real ones or not. Anything. I'm here." Squeezing Sherlock's hands one last time, looking up at him with those wonderful eyes that emphasized the sincerity of each of his words, John tried a small smile, then walked away. Sherlock knew at that very moment that his decision had been made for him, that now there was no way back as he was already much too invested. And for the first time in years, the prospect - despite being just as alarming as ever - was laced with some else: a delicate river of hope.

Over the next week, things almost went back to normal save for occasional tender touches and chaste, fleeting kisses, deliberately initiated by Sherlock to convey that he had chosen not to ignore their previous encounter, but that he required patience. John was being a perfect gentleman, leaving it up entirely to his flat mate to make the next move.

It was the following Saturday, when the two men had just solved a particularly dull case that had sounded much more exciting in theory than it ended up being, that they got caught in an awful downpour of rain during their walk home (John, always the practical one, had insisted they had to cut back on their cab use, as it was significantly affecting their financial situation). Although only around a few corners from their flat, they both ended up drenched as they finally stumbled into the hallway of 221B, shivering in their cold, soaked clothes.

"Mrs. Hudson is going to kill us if we leave puddles all the way up the stairs again!", John voiced his concern, leaning against the wall with one arm as he tried to catch his breath from running.

"So what do you propose?", asked an equally breathless Sherlock, "Take our clothes off right down here?"

"I don't think I would mind", John smiled, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Before either of them could marvel in the joy of this new found, flirty banter, the detective intuitively acted on a sudden urge he couldn't recall having ever felt before by stepping up to his mate, pushing him against the wall with the weight of his own body and kissing him. It wasn't anything like the subdued pecks he had showered John with all week, neither was it as soft and sweet as their first kiss. This time, it was passionate, deep and with a hunger that frankly frightened Sherlock to the core. He was aware this was dangerous territory, but he couldn't help but wanting to devour all of John right then and there. Their mouths crushed together, their bodies soon followed, hands pulling each other closer, heaving chests right up against each other, hips subconsciously starting to grind... It wasn't until Sherlock became aware of John's wet-cloth-clad hardness against his own thigh that he stepped back with a sharp inhale, shooting his mate a slightly bewildered look. It wasn't as if the fact surprised him, it was to be expected, and yet it made it painfully obvious that they still had issues to discuss, that he still owed John some clarifications.  
   
Without another word or concern about Mrs. Hudson's stairs, he made his way to their flat taking two steps at once, leaving a shell shocked John behind. It wasn't until John finally came upstairs, too, shoes in hand as to minimize the mess in the hallway, that Sherlock spoke to him again, calling from the bathroom: "I'm drawing us a hot bath, John, we ought to warm up if we don't want to catch a cold. Feel free to join me whenever."

After speaking the invitation, a nervous Sherlock went to his bedroom to peel himself out of his wet clothes, putting nothing back on but his morning frock. Back in the bathroom, he made sure the temperature of the water was a perfect 38°C and added some foaming liquid to the tub. Good. Perfect. Now all he had to do was wait for John to show up. Nervously, he paced up and down the small room, wondering if he was doing the right thing, then worrying whether John had even understood him correctly, whether he even wanted to. After what seemed like an eternity, John showed up in the doorframe, clad in his robe, just like Sherlock, with an equally anxious look on his face. Relieved at his presence, Sherlock decided to release some of their tension by kissing John again, guiding him into the bathroom in the process. Kissing John's lips, his forehead, his ears, then settling on his neck, Sherlock let his hands roam around the other man's shoulders before gently slipping them inside his robe, caressing his chest. With an effortless motion, John untied his robe and then shrugged it off his shoulders, off his body, leaving him completely naked underneath. Sherlock could tell he was nervous, too, so he kept his staring to a minimum, fighting the urge to catalogue all of John's body immediately. Instead, he kissed down to the doctor's collarbone, tracing it with his fingers, then moved over to his shoulder, where a distinctive scar indicated a bullet wound. "Beautiful", Sherlock muttered while kissing and licking at it tenderly.

When John's hands, which had been traveling Sherlock's chest lazily, hesitantly started fondling with his robe, Sherlock grabbed his wrists to still the motion, then remove them all together. Locking eyes with John, he took one deep breath, then turned around and stepped towards the tub. Right in front of it, back to the other man, he then undid his frock and slowly let it slide to the floor. He could hear John's gasp for air as he revealed his nude backside to him, and although a small part of him entertained the silly idea that John's reaction concerned his attractive buttocks, he knew for a fact that it was more likely caused by the word scarred into his lower back. Crooked letters, thick lines, but clearly readable: FAGGOT.  
  
 He clenched his fists by his side, hard and trembling, swallowed his panic and just forced himself to keep standing there, exposed. He refused to turn around, to see the look on John's face, it would be more than he could bare. So he just stared at the wall, blinking his tears away, when he heard John walk up to him, then felt him slowly wrapping his arms around him from behind and leaning his forehead between his shoulder blades for a moment, listening to Sherlock's heart beat. Then he could feel him sink to his knees, hands moving down his back until John's eyes must have been right at the height of the scar, and his fingers were tracing it, slowly. "A...appalling. I'm sorry", Sherlock managed to squeeze out in a voice that didn't sound like his at all. In reply, he felt John's lips at his back, kissing down every single letter, taking his time before coming back and whispering straight into his ear: "No, beautiful. You. You are beautiful, Sherlock Holmes."

With that, John stepped around Sherlock and emerged himself into the tub, reaching up with his hand for the detective to join him. He took it and finally dared to lock eyes with John as he climbed into the bath with him. He was afraid he would see pity, or disgust, even, but instead those indigo eyes were filled with warmth, and questions, and something that could only be love. Feeling a little more reassured, Sherlock settled between John's thighs, his back against the other's chest, who immediately wrapped his arms around him tightly and buried his nose in his hair.

They sat like that for a while, enjoying the warmth surrounding them, before Sherlock breached the silence: "Ironic, isn't it? That I would have it on my body for so many years, before I realized it's true." He didn't expect an answer, there were no right words to say to that, so he was glad when John enveloped him even tighter and took to showering the back of his neck with small kisses. Finally, John spoke, his voice nearly a whisper: "Who did this to you, Sherlock? Why?"

"First year at university. I didn't have any friends, so I entertained myself observing, making deductions, helping those whose intellect failed them in any non-academic areas."

"A detective, even then", John mused.

"Yes, well, it didn't make me all too popular. Especially not when one day this girl approached me, wanting to find out whether her boyfriend was cheating on her or not. We spent quite some time together, she was nice and the first person ever who seemed to be able to tolerate me. I think at the time I even thought I felt some kind of...sentiment...towards her. Wasn't that what college boys were supposed to do, after all? Fall in love with pretty girls?"

"When does Sherlock Holmes ever do what he is supposed to do?", John tried to lighten the mood.

"Back then I didn't know yet what it meant to be Sherlock Holmes. I'm not even sure I know, now... Anyway, like I said, we were spending quite a lot of time together, but nothing happened between us. Although that is not what her boyfriend believed after he found out we had been hanging out for some while without his knowledge. Happens, I wasn't all too popular with him and his best buddies, either. They played pranks on me, humiliated me in public, your typical college humor. I didn't care, I was used to their rubbish games, having grown up with Mycroft as a big brother. When they realized they weren't getting to me, they decided to gang up on me one day. It was a Saturday afternoon, they surprised me in the bathroom, knocked me out and hid in there with me until we were locked inside of the building for the remaining weekend. When I came back to my senses, I was on the floor, naked, tied with ropes between a bathroom stall and a sink. I...they...they said....d...." Sherlock could feel another panic attack approaching, surprised he had even been able to hold it off this long, so he pulled his legs to his chest, rested his chin on his knees and covered his face in his hands, trying to steady his breathing and swallow the panic. Having John right behind him, silent but attentive, running his gentle hands up and down his back and sides, washing him, had a surprisingly soothing effect.

"You don't have to continue, Sherlock. I...I think I get the picture now, you don't have to elaborate if it's too painful. They wanted to brand you, brand you with that word, because in their feeble mind that somehow meant you would have trouble ever being with another girl, didn't they?", he asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded, then found his voice again: "Yes and no. I... I'm going to need you to listen to the whole story though, I'll need you to understand exactly what happened, no matter how painful it may be, because after this, I don't think I can bring myself to ever talk about it again. Not to the extent I'm willing to discuss it now. And you need to know. If  we are going to work, you need to know everything that happened that weekend.  
He could feel John tense up, afraid of what he was about to hear, but he was brave, ever the soldier: "Fine. Do go on then."

Still holding on to his knees tightly pulled towards him, Sherlock braced himself for reliving every painful memory as he was about to voice them to the man behind him, who kept continuously foaming his back, rubbing it and scooping warm water over him. He closed his eyes, and as he told John exactly what had happened, he himself witnessed it all over again.

_He was on the floor, naked, tied up, and more scared than he had ever been in his life. Looking up he saw them looming over him, three young men his age, classmates. They looked amused at his state of distress, one of them sneering: "Look at the freak all freaked out! - hey, that's funny, isn't it? - His big brains won't help him much, now, will they?"_

_"Yeah, pity. Hey, freak, maybe you should consider focusing on reading a little less and exercising a little more! Looking a little lanky there - "_

_The speaker poked him in the chest with a chubby, red finger. Sherlock flinched involuntarily at the touch._

_"Oh look, brainy boy doesn't like to be touched!"_

_"Hah, no wonder, probably never has been in his life! - Are you a virgin, freak? Come on, you can tell us, we're your FRIENDS. - Oh, wait, you don't have those, do you?"_

_Sherlock looked up defiantly, his eyes narrowed with rage and disgust._

_"How pathetic. Doesn't even have friends who would pitifuck him. STILL NO EXCUSE TO TRY TO GET WITH MY GIRLFRIEND YOU BLOODY GEEK!"_

_"I am NOT after your girlfriend", Sherlock pressed out through his teeth, eyes glaring dangerously._

_"You'd be well advised not to be - what do you even imagine she would want from you? What in your freak brain would make you think she'd chose a virgin psychopath over all this?" He gestured at himself, then made an obscene movement with his hips._

_"Aside from the obvious, I already told you I'm not after her. I hate when idiots like you constantly make me repeat myself. So tedious.", Sherlock tried with fake confidence, hoping the game would lose their appeal if they realized - if they thought - that they couldn't intimidate him._   
  
_Instead, it earned him two strong hands around his neck, chocking him as he could hear the voice again: "Listen to me. Don't try to get cocky, because we will destroy you. You think you can outsmart us? Well, we'll show you just what WE can do to YOU, and I promise you won't like it one bit." Sherlock was gurgling, struggling desperately against the hands that made it almost impossible for him to breathe. "Or maybe you will? Hey guys, what do you think? If we give him our treatment, do you think he'll like it?" Release. Sherlock tried to catch his breath, tears stinging in his eyes, fear now eminent throughout his entire being._

_"I don't know man, but then again, I don't care. Either way, this will be the best fuck he'll ever get, so I suppose whether he decides to enjoy it or not is really all up to the freak himself."_

_At those last words, Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief, his still recovering throat closing up again, as he frantically tried to find a way out of this situation. Only a few deductions later, however, we was painfully aware that it was the weekend, the school was locked up, no one would hear him shout and he was up against three beefy, muscular men. Three men who apparently planned on abusing him, and he was at their full mercy. Sherlock had never felt so helpless in his entire life, and he quickly wondered if he believed in god, whether this would be the time to pray._

_One of them spoke to him again, pulling his face up by his hair to look at him: "Hey, freak, after WE're done with you, I can promise you, you'll never want to look at my girl again. Or any girl, for that matter." Laughter. Surreal._

_At a loss for words, Sherlock decided to keep his defenses up as long as he possibly could, stay proud and not let these jerks defy him, break him. So he spit in the man's face, who just grinned mockingly and growled: "Oh, you'll regret that, you faggot."_

_He then pushed Sherlock's chest to the floor with the help of his heavy boot-clad foot, took his belt off in one smooth swoop, laced it around his victim's throat and pulled tight. "Boys, I think he's ready for you now",  he snarled, jerking at the belt and spitting down on Sherlock._

_After that, Sherlock could feel kicks with boots and strokes with belts come down on his body at all angles, tormenting him for what seemed forever as he just bowed his head in efforts of protecting it and clenched his eyes shut. The pain was dreadful, but it was nothing in comparison to his fear of what was implied would come next._

Sherlock went silent for a minute, gathering up the courage to keep going, ignoring the tears silently streaming down his face. He didn't have to turn around to know that John, behind him, was crying, too. Eventually, Sherlock answered the unspoken question, his voice almost detached from his body, from his emotions.  
"They did. After they beat me, after they broke my body, they took. One after the other, time and time again."

_He was overwhelmed by the pain, it was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It was rough, demanding, inconsiderate. He tried to focus on the feel of the cold floor beneath his cheek, even the fingers digging into his hips for leverage, anything to distract himself from the center of the torture that was being inflicted on him, the burning ache.  Listening to their disgusting grunts, he gave his best to refrain from showing tears, from providing them any sort of evidence that they had won._

"After a while they became tired, took a break from me. They must have slipped me some kind of drug, as my memory after that gets rather hazy, but I do recall specific episodes, remember them coming back for more, over and over."

_"Hey, freak, wake up! We're back. You hungry? You thirsty? I got something for you", a mocking voice broke the daze he had emerged himself in. Upon opening his eyes, he found himself level with an exposed cock being stroked right in front of his face. "Come on, you know you want some. Just open your mouth, be a good boy. If you do it well, I might even let you keep the rewards. Swallow it, like the little faggot you know you are." More laughter. Sherlock pressed his lips shut defiantly. He was too weak to voice that he would rather bite the other man's penis off than engage in fellatio with him. "Oh, so you're playing hard to get, huh? Well, we'll see if I can make you change your mind..." With that, he grabbed the belt that was still looped around Sherlock's neck with one hand and pulled it taught, strangling and choking his victim once more. It was a fight for power, one that Sherlock was clearly inferior in, and after short minutes of admirable resistance, he was forced to open his mouth and let himself be violated yet again._

"Every time they came back, they would have come up with a new twist."

_"Say cheese for the camera, freak!" A flash, shuffling of feet, a different angle. Flash again. His sore bottom, subject to more penetration. Flash. Cock in his mouth. Close up. Flash. "If you ever decide you want to share the specifics of our little...gathering...here with anyone, anyone at all, we can guarantee you that we'll be very, VERY disappointed. Oh, and so will your brother, and your poor parents, once they receive these lovely photos of their precious son's extracurricular activities! You wouldn't want to do that to them, now would you? So if you don't tell anyone just how much - fun - we had here, I promise we won't tell anyone just how much of a faggot you are. Deal, freak?"_

"I was furious, but probably for the first time, ever, I was also defeated. Completely and utterly defeated. They were right, I had been a virgin. And it was at that very moment, that weekend, that I vowed to myself to forever delete any sexual desires, any need for human touch, any urge for gratification. I had had enough for a lifetime, and I was certain there was nothing that would ever be able to redeem this incident. My choice was sealed when they decided to commemorate this occasion on my body."

_"Just so you won't forget about us, little freak. Won't forget about just what you are. And, naturally, to warn people about you - you know, just in case you should ever miraculously find someone again who would even WANT to get this close to you." More laughter. A switchblade. Two pairs of strong arms holding him down, steadying him, while another carved deep into his skin._

There. It was all laid out, down to the last little detail, he had revealed it all. Had vocalized his trauma, his resolution, and his resulting inability to ever love, to ever be touched again. Not that he wasn't willing to try, with John, but he knew himself better than that. He knew that no caress of John's, no intimate touch would go by without him automatically relating it to his past, to his only other experience. And John deserved more than that. He deserved someone he could love, both emotionally AND physically, and he was worthy of someone who could love him back, unconditionally. He simply couldn't send him out into this minefield that was his sexuality, into the haunted house that was his heart. Not when he had already been to war and back.

Silence had dominated the bathroom since he had finished his tale, and, unable to look John in the eyes, Sherlock had just sat there, waiting for his world to stop spinning, to fall apart. John, who had sat motionless behind Sherlock for quite some while now, finally cleared his throat, but rather than saying anything he simply got up, stepped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around himself. Then, offering a helping hand and another towel to Sherlock, the men finally dared to look at each other, really LOOK. And when Sherlock saw those eyes, those incredibly beautiful eyes,  reddened with sadness, with disbelief and anger, yet filled with more love than he had ever thought possible, he knew John wouldn't simply give up on him like that. No matter how broken he was, no matter how much work this required. He was a soldier, after all, he was prepared to fight. And he was a doctor, too, prepared to heal and reassemble the pieces of this broken heart.  
Overwhelmed with the realization, Sherlock - probably for the first time in his life - was utterly at a loss. So, instead of taking John's outstretched hand, he submerged himself completely into the now significantly cooled water, momentarily blocking out all sound and sight, marveling at the strength and endurance of John's affection for him, and at the powers of a simple shared bath.

 


	4. Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock try to overcome the obstacles of the detective's past in their burgeoning relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so incredibly sorry that it has taken me this long to finally complete this story! Distracted by life in all of its hell and glory, then somewhat sidetracked by other works that I have started and finished, this piece sort of took the back seat there for a while - which is also partially due to the heavy subject matter, which I don't find easy to write about.  
> Moreover, I wanted to do this story justice and end it with a well thought-out chapter, not just something I whipped up for the mere sake of finishing it. 
> 
> I hope you can forgive me and enjoy this last element! :)

 

 

EARTH

_Earth is a strong and stable constant;_   
_it is generous in its offering of nurture and endurance._   
_Earth is patient and unconditionally giving,_   
_ever comforting in a continuous cycle of life, death and rebirth._

Although nothing much had changed on the surface, it was evident that the dynamics between them had shifted since Sherlock's full disclosure of his painful past. The detective had been afraid that once John knew of the torturous things he had experienced, he would forevermore see him as a victim and thus handle him with kid gloves. Sherlock, however, didn't want to be reduced to this one, small aspect of his life - he didn't want anyone's pity, especially not John's. All he was asking for was understanding, and patience.

Amazingly, John seemed to have picked up on just that need, as he hardly treated his mate any differently than he had before. He would still shout at him for leaving experiments to rot on the kitchen table or in the fridge, would still roll his eyes at any occasion Sherlock took advantage of to be a show-off, would still pull him out of a sulk and tell him that he was being ridiculous. It was in the little things that Sherlock noticed a difference: in the way John would always subtly let him take the lead in terms of physicality; in the way he was never demanding, never accusing - just purely patient, content anyway - whenever Sherlock retreated before things could get too heated between them. In the way he would simply take his hand, squeeze it and smile - letting him know that it was alright, that this was all he needed.

Sherlock loved his doctor profoundly for everything he did (and didn't) do, and he found himself becoming more and more comfortable in this burgeoning - whatever it was that they had so carefully nurtured between them.  
When months had passed, however, and they still had done nothing more than snog, cuddle and enjoy the occasional bath together, Sherlock's conscience slowly but steadily started eating away at him. John never let on, seeming genuinely happy with their arrangement, but the detective - well aware of the doctor's naturally active sex drive, always a significant component in his past relationships and encounters as well as solo ventures - hardly had to be genius to deduce that their lack of physical intimacy must be taking its toll on the other man.

It wasn't as if he didn't want to - tentatively allowing his sexual nature to surface again for the first time since the assault wasn't all too difficult. Not with John, not with the person he trusted most in this world. He DID have desires again, caught himself experiencing arousal upon direct contact with John - and sometimes even at the mere thought of him. It was the actual execution that posed a problem for him, that frightened him to the core. What if just the simplest touch, the kindest of caresses brought back vivid memories of the only other time he had found himself in such a situation? What if he couldn't convince that one irrational, illogical and deeply despised part of himself that it was John this time, that John meant no harm? What if every drop of pleasure was instantly drowned by an ocean of terror? He was mortified to find out, and even more scared of disappointing John in the process.

However, when he overheard John masturbate in the shower for the seventh day in a row (established pattern: once in the mornings, in the shower, and generally again at night in his bedroom, especially if preceded by physical contact with the detective) he came to the final conclusion that things simply couldn't go on as they were. John deserved an actual relationship, with all aspects of it, and Sherlock owed him at least an attempt at normalcy, no matter how terrifying the idea was.

Taking a deep breath and clenching his jaw in determination, Sherlock entered the bathroom without knocking. He could see that he had startled John, who froze mid-movement with his hand on his cock and stared at his friend, bewildered. "Sherlock, I...", he started, slightly panicky, quickly turning away to hide his obvious erection.

Sherlock tried a nervous smile. "Please, John… go on. I...I would like you to."

The man in the shower looked incredulous.

"If...that's ok with you, of course." The unbidden visitor was starting to doubt the sanity of his approach, but then John reassured him with an earnest nod and the hesitant resumption of his activity.

"You...you want to watch?", he clarified, his voice suddenly sounding thick.

"Problem?" Sherlock hadn't meant for his voice to sound so small, almost apologetic, but it was too late to take it back now.

"Not at all". The doctor was evidently still surprised, but turned to face Sherlock again, providing him with an unadulterated view of the hand stroking his hard cock.

Sherlock couldn't help but stare - the strong, skilled hand, John's thick and flushed prick. The image stirred something within him, made his stomach clench and a distinct tightness spread to his groin. He was astonished at the realization that his reaction was about 85% positive, successfully domineering any negative associations.

Slightly more empowered, he stated: "You are beautiful."

Despite the shower's heat and arousal already evident on the doctor's face, his cheeks flushed even redder at the compliment.

"Tell me, what are you thinking about.", the detective urged, suddenly compelled by frank curiosity, "Don't be shy."

He could see John debating momentarily whether he should lie, but then settled on the resolution that honesty would be the best approach.

"I think about you, love. About...your gorgeous body, your clever mind. I think about our kisses, the way you taste and how...how your tongue feels on mine. I recall every single thing you have ever said to me, and I drown in...your voice." John had become increasingly breathless as he muttered the words, eyes locked on Sherlock. He had quickened the pace of his strokes, working his cock feverishly now.

"And...?", the detective prompted, his voice unusually hoarse and raggedy. Tentatively, his hand had moved to the front of his trousers, palming his own hard cock through them.

"I...I imagine your fingers. Your long, graceful fingers...touching me, all over. I imagine them gripping my hair, trailing down my chest...squeezing my arse...I imagine them wrapped around...", he couldn't hold back a moan, then stared at Sherlock's groin intently, nodding in encouragement. The detective complied, driven by pure instinct now, and undid his trousers to slip a hand inside.

"I imagine them wrapped around my prick", John finally continued and groaned alongside Sherlock, who failed at restraining himself as his fingers made contact with his aching flesh.

"I think about what you would look like - what it would feel like, you stroking me...", the doctor kept talking, interrupting himself with whimpers and barely constrained need as he was evidently attempting to delay his own orgasm, waiting for Sherlock to catch up.

The dark haired man mimicked John's descriptions on himself, stroking his cock somewhat clumsily. He hadn't engaged in any such activity since before... He swallowed the memories down hastily, forcing himself to stay in the present. Focusing on John, who was now supporting himself against the bathroom tiles with one hand while moving his other arm frantically, panting audibly, gaze hazy but never once averted from his counterpart. He looked incredibly stunning, and Sherlock groaned out his name.

"Fuck, Sherlock!", John responded almost instantly, then came into his fist with a final, forceful bucking of hips. Unused to the sight and overall sensation, Sherlock followed suit momentarily, releasing years of pent-up tension with a primal cry and long spurts all over his hand and trousers.

The utter relief he experienced was breathtaking, albeit cut short as he looked down at his hands.

_Ejaculate. Its stickiness all over his skin, marking him with white streaks, clearly identifying his body as their temporary property - and at least part of his mind as their eternal slave, that he was sure of.  
Semen, its bitter and musky taste on his tongue, seemingly still covering the walls of his abused throat. Come, so much of it - three different people's worth - slowly seeping out of him, undignified and shameful as they finally abandoned him there, used and broken and left to his own devices. _

His vision clouded by a sudden stream of tears, Sherlock hastily wiped the mess off on a towel and tugged himself back in, then spun around on his heel to leave the bathroom in a panic; long and hurried strides taking him to his bedroom where he buried his face in the pillows and gave full reign to his emotions.

He didn't know how much later it was when John approached him, projecting calm steadiness and providing infinite comfort as he curled up behind Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him tightly. Together they lay there until the detective was pulled into the merciful depths of a peaceful, dreamless midday nap.  
They didn't talk about what had happened - John understood, even without words, and Sherlock didn't fathom he could possibly love him any more for it than he did. The doctor knew it wasn't easy for him, and he acknowledged that although it hadn't been much, their shower incident had constituted a giant leap forward for Sherlock.  
  
Although nothing similar was repeated any time soon, the detective had slowly begun allowing some heavier touching and caressing - even below the waistline - into their more intense kissing encounters, which generally resulted in both men retreating to their own bedrooms afterwards in silent agreement to grant themselves release. It wasn't an ideal arrangement, but it was the most Sherlock could offer at that point.

As a particularly difficult case was taking its toll on both men about a month later, John became unbearably frustrated and short-tempered - a rather uncharacteristic development for the generally well balanced ex-soldier. Despite his blaming it solely on the case, Sherlock quickly deduced that it was also the lack of a certain stress-relieving activity that John generally resorted to in these kinds of circumstances that was causing his irritability.

"If you want to just get is elsewhere, I completely understand.", Sherlock stated out of the blue one night as they were both in the kitchen - the shorter man cooking, the tall genius bent over his microscope.

"Huh? What on earth are you on about now, Sherlock?". The sharp tone had become a constant presence in his voice over the course of the last week or so.

"Sex, John. You're intolerable these days, and, as you would put it, you just need to get laid."

"Sherlock, I realize that's not an option right now, and that's fine. So...please, just let it be, okay?" He had put the pan aside and turned his full attention to the other man, ruffling a hand through his hair in a gesture of both helplessness and impatience.

"Of course it is an option. I just offered it to you." It was the detective's turn to become irritated now.

"No, what I think you offered was me having sex with someone else, if I understood that correctly."

"...which is a valid option. Seriously John, don't be so daft. You have done it before, there's absolutely no reason you should let me hinder you now."

John stared at his friend with an expression of bewilderment and incredulousness.

"What do you mean, NO REASON?!", the blond man started shouting now, "I thought we were in a bloody relationship! Is that not reason enough?!"

Sherlock didn't respond, just gulped at the other man's outburst. A relationship. John really considered what they had an actual relationship. He had wanted nothing more than for their bond to be just that, but somehow considering the fact that he was clearly incapable of providing a very significant part of what defined a relationship (or at least so he had assumed - wasn't that what conventions told them?), he had somehow figured... hadn't expected... He bit his lower lip in a desperate attempt to fight back the tears that were suddenly threatening to spill over.

At the obviously distressed sight of his counterpart, John reigned his temper in a bit, continuing in a calmer tone: "Sherlock, I don't WANT to have sex with anyone else. You are all I want, and this - ", he came closer to frame the other man's face in his hands and plant a small kiss on his lips, "- THIS is all I need." The kind gesture cost Sherlock his self-control and tears started to shed freely.

"But...what if I never...", he started, sounding so uncertain of himself he loathed it with all his might.

"Shhh.", John reassured him, crouching down in front of him. "Then that's ok, too. I promise."

Sherlock was tempted to just believe those words, but as he couldn't quite convince himself of their plausibility, he made a resolution: he wouldn't let John down - not without giving his all, not without trying his hardest first.

 

The next evening, John's lips were soft against his own, moving in perfect unison as they were cuddled up on the sofa.  Their kiss was sweet, innocent - and any other day, Sherlock would have gladly left it at that. Tonight, however, he was determined. It had taken a lot of mental preparation, a lot of debating and talking himself into it, but now he wouldn't allow himself to duck out anymore. If he didn't do it now, he wasn't sure he could ever bring himself to consider it again.

Slipping his tongue between John's lips and into his mouth, he deepened their kiss, enhancing it by threading his fingers through the other man's short hair. If John was taken off guard by the sudden passion of this approach, he didn't let on, and soon the air was filled with small moans and thrumming with sexual tension. Sherlock pulled the shorter man onto his lap and started rocking their hips together, both of their arousal evident in hard bulges straining against their trousers. Breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against John's, Sherlock looked down to watch as he tentatively ran a finger along John's clothed prick, resulting in a quiver and shuddery exhale. Encouraged by the reaction, the detective began working his hand a little more confidently - firm friction provided by a palm, slight squeezes with long fingers. He had reverted his gaze back up to John's face and was mesmerized by the way pleasure had so beautifully contorted his features, by how his expression was both so far away and so very present at the same time. John's eyes cleared up as they stared back into Sherlock's, unspoken questions clearly written all across them.

Sherlock cleared his throat, then spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper: "Trousers. Off."

John quickly complied, then climbed back onto Sherlock's lap, straddling his legs and resting his hands on the detective's shoulders.

"I want to touch you", Sherlock breathed and knew he was failing miserably at hiding his nervousness. This was it. He had never voluntarily touched another person in such an intimate way, and both his inexperience as well as the demons of his past caused his hand to tremble as he slowly brought it to cup John's erection again through his pants. John leaned forward and kissed him, gently, reassuringly. His face still mere centimeters from Sherlock's - so close the detective could feel the hot breath escaping those thin lips as it hit his own face - and they both watched as John put his own hand over Sherlock's at his groin, slowly guiding him inside for skin-on-skin contact.

Sherlock gasped at the sensation - John's dry, calm and steady hand atop his own, trembling one; John's hot, hard and throbbing cock beneath his clammy fingers. He could feel the rapid beat of his heart extend to his every nerve ending and tried to focus solely on controlling his breathing as John began moving their hands up and down the length of his prick.  
The motion solicited a series of little noises indicating raw pleasure from John, and Sherlock found them extraordinarily helpful in enabling him to stay in the moment, to stay with John. _This is John. John's cock in my hand. John's moans. I'd recognize the timbre of that voice anywhere. I'm causing him pleasure. I want to make him feel good. He's enjoying this because he loves me, and I'm enjoying this because I feel the same way. I initiated this, and I can stop at any point. This is just transport, and we are just using it to our advantage._    
He wasn't sure what exactly he was doing - wasn't aware of John's preferences, or of the proper technique - but he simply gave in to the soft commands of the never-ceasing presence of John's hand atop his. Soon he was applying a firmer grip, stroking faster and stopping every now and then to tease the head of John's prick, using his precome for additional lubrication. His own breathing had become ragged, his prick begging for attention, but he concentrated exclusively on John: the way his pulse quickened, the way his cock twitched, the way his throat omitted the most delectable of sounds, and finally the way he jerked with jolts of pleasure as he came into Sherlock's fist.

They stared at each other breathlessly for a moment - John visibly stunned at what had just transpired, Sherlock immensely relieved at how well it had gone - before collapsing into each other's arms in utter disregard of the mess in John's pants and on the detective's hand. As they held each other, the doctor caressed Sherlock's neglected and still hard cock through his trousers, idly and unobtrusively - always considerate, never demanding. Rendered optimistic by the small success he had just experienced, the tall man did not only allow the touch but eventually also decided to encourage it, undoing his trousers and shimmying them down to mid-thigh. John's grip instantly felt more real - and thus slightly more threatening - through only the thin fabric of his pants, but he dug his fingers into his partner's legs sharply and breathed through it, focusing solely on the arousing quality of the touch.

When John tentatively traced a finger under the waistband and looked at him with big, questioning eyes, Sherlock forced himself to nod ever so slightly, granting permission.  
The first time John touched his cock was an explosive mixture of sensations and impressions. It felt glorious to have one of those hands directly connected to such an intimate part of him - those marvelous hands, strong and skilled; steady hands of a surgeon, hands that saved lives and healed. The friction it provided was welcome, he had been yearning for it, starving even - the potential of release it yielded so much greater than that of his own hands. It also felt terrifying - it was, after all, a hand he had absolutely no control over. A hand that had undoubtedly killed, that had caused harm - and may it only have been in the pursuit of the strongest of moral principles. A hand that, despite everything, still held the power to inflict pain and terror, humiliation and shame.  
Desperately trying to block out those ridiculous, unjustified worries,  Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

_Hands on him. So many hands on his body. A set of ten fingers, digging into his hips for leverage as his cheek kept scraping the floor in accordance with the painful thrusts. Afterwards (or in between, really), another pair of hands, one pulling at his hair roughly while the other forced his jaw open to accommodate the thick, wet girth that was proof of his abusers sick pleasure. Someone else's  fist, simultaneously tugging at his flaccid penis, ridiculing him with raw force, keeping themselves entertained until it was their turn to have at him again. Laughter, loud and cruel, and hands, so many menacing hands..._

"Sherlock!.... Sherlock, love!", John's voice broke through the fog of memories that had enveloped him tightly, bringing him back into the present. His breathing was labored, his entire body was trembling and his erection had flagged significantly. John was still straddling him, regarding him with buckets of concern and love as his hands, withdrawn from his cock, massaged his neck gently.

"I'm sorry...", he muttered, and John reciprocated with a sad and understanding smile.

"It's alright, love. I'm here. We can just..."

"No!", the detective interrupted, sharply, then took a deep breath, "I need to do this. Now. Please."

He hadn't fully realized the accuracy and urgency behind those words until they had left his mouth, but he knew that he would have to overcome his fear sooner rather than later, and they had already ventured so far...

"Are you sure?", John seemed slightly taken aback, blatantly voicing his skepticism.

"Yes...Just... talk to me, John, let me hear your voice so I know it's you. And don't let me close my eyes.", Sherlock more pleaded than commanded.

"Okay...what...what do you want me to say?", the doctor seemed at an honest loss, "I mean...I don't generally talk very much, during..." He blushed, and Sherlock instantly felt himself become calmer and more relaxed again at the endearing sight.

"I don't care, John, so long as I hear your voice... Just tell me...tell me about the first time we met."

"Okay. And if you need me to stop, please don't be afraid to say so, hmm? Any time, Sherlock, any time. It's fine."

The detective nodded, then leaned in to kiss his doctor languidly, tongues grazing, lips parting and sighs escaping while John's hand returned to cupping Sherlock's resurfacing erection gently.

The blond man moved his lips to his lover's neck, kissing and lapping teasingly before venturing up to his ear and whispering: "Let me tell you, Sherlock, about the first time I laid eyes on the most beautiful, intriguing and insane man I have ever met."

He sat up straight again, locked his gaze on Sherlock's eyes and gifted him a genuine smile.

"I had just told Mike about my depressing return to London, and my inability to find a decent living space, when he suggested I look for a flat mate. Frankly, I thought the idea was ridiculous and also slightly inappropriate for a man my age, and I told him so."

John had taken to actively rubbing and squeezing Sherlock's now rather prominent erection through his pants again.

"That's when he told me he had just had a similar conversation with another  - acquaintance - of his, and that he thought we might actually be a perfect match."

The doctor smiled again, obviously fond of the memory, then - without warning - lifted himself off of Sherlock momentarily and motioned for him to pull his pants down. It was a big step, but he had so seamlessly integrated it into their interaction that it seemed almost normal,  almost natural to Sherlock as he lifted his hips and obliged shakily.

"'A perfect match?', I asked Mike, and this was his response: 'He's an utter lunatic with the brain capacity of a proper genius but the social skills of a piece of toast. He's rude and overly dramatic, keeps odd hours and has a disproportionate affinity for danger. You'll like him.'"

At the last words, John's fingers had tightly enveloped Sherlock's cock, causing the latter to moan involuntarily - whether at the touch, or words, or a combination of both he didn't know.

"I don't know what I had expected after that description, but it certainly wasn't anything close to the sight that greeted me when I stepped into that lab not twenty minutes later.", John continued and teased Sherlock's glans.  
"Who would have thought a mad genius could look so...poised, and proper? I guess the only thing that complied with my imagination was your unruly hair, but even that...You looked so elegant and sophisticated, almost ethereal. And at the same time so...", he started stroking the shaft lazily as he kept talking, "..so bloody gorgeous and sexy! I swear, until I saw you, I had never thought of another man as neither gorgeous nor sexy. But you...you just had something about yourself that instantly commanded the attention of my every nerve, my every sense."  
His strokes started becoming more determined - not forceful by any means, but with decided intent. Sherlock gulped, memories threatening to resurface again. But this was John, he reminded himself, his friend, his doctor, his lover. John's, who had the most trusting - trustworthy! - blue eyes, the softest voice that was so distinctly his, that could never belong to anyone else. Focusing on those two constants - blue eyes, soft voice - Sherlock kept a tight grip on reality and found himself slowly rocking into the motion of John's fist on his prick.

"I was painfully aware of my attraction to you within just a few seconds after first having laid eyes on you", John admitted, "and then...then you opened your mouth, and your voice claimed whatever small bit I had preserved of my soul."

In  a brief moment of complete clarity, Sherlock was astonished to discover that he had been rendered to a moaning, whimpering, needy mess under John's unrelenting touch - and that he was enjoying every single second of it. He could feel his orgasm building, and motioned for John to keep going.

"I've never told you this, Sherlock, but your voice is divine. It's like smooth honey, and expensive velvet, and a gentle hug in the freezing night. It's pure sex and god... from the first time I heard it I was wondering what you'd sound like, moaning my name..."

John's eyes had been consumed by lust, black holes staring at him in unconcealed want. Sherlock did him the favor and moaned out John's name, surprised at the huskiness of his own baritone.

"Fuck, Sherlock, you are so goddamn beautiful", John panted as he worked Sherlock's cock hard now, encouraged by the detective's heavy breathing and omission of unintelligible sounds.

"I want you to come for me, Sherlock...I want you to look into my eyes, and let me watch you come undone...This is ours, love, nobody else's."

Sherlock was suddenly rippled by a powerful onslaught of sensatory overload - waves of pleasure washing over him, drowning him in a moment of pure bliss before reluctantly but gradually releasing him again - directly into John's arms, who was right there; always prepared to catch him, to hold him, to make him whole. He burrowed his head in the other man's chest, and this time it wasn't sadness or horror that overwhelmed him, but relief and unbridled happiness.

He knew - they both knew - that he still had a long way ahead of him, and that their path wasn't going to be all fluff and joy and glee. He hadn't magically freed himself from the shackles of his terror just because of this one successful intimate encounter - he would probably always be plagued by his past, and it was likely that there would always remain some things he wouldn't be able to give to John so easily, if ever... But there was hope, and improvement, and - most importantly - their unconditional love, ever propelling them forward.

 

T H E    E N D

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I am probably undeserving, considering how long I've kept you waiting, but I would just love to hear your final comments and remarks!

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I sit here reveling in everyone's amazing work and I start wondering whether mine can even begin to match up, so naturally kudos and comments are always much appreciated ;)


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